


Some Rules Are Never Meant To Be Broken

by Mermaidxatxheart



Series: Some Rules Are Never Meant To Be Broken [1]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crossover, Drama, F/M, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:13:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27037000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mermaidxatxheart/pseuds/Mermaidxatxheart
Summary: The reader is a Muse living life as a tour guide at a museum. Bucky is struggling with returning home from war and adjusting to civilian life. He used to be a paramedic and now works security, but what he really misses from his pre-war life is his ability to draw. Cue the reader, determined to do her job and get him back to a point where he can do what he loves most. But, spending that much time with anyone always leads to romantic feelings, which is against her laws. Will she be able to resist Bucky long enough to help him and not get her in serious trouble?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Series: Some Rules Are Never Meant To Be Broken [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1973260
Kudos: 4





	Some Rules Are Never Meant To Be Broken

You don’t know when you switched the museum chatter to just background noise, but it’s been a while, so you didn’t really notice when it had disappeared altogether. You drone on to the group in front of you about the statue behind you, when you look around to your tour group, only to realize they have completely vanished. You glance around, fully expecting to see other museum visitors, but you are the only one in the massive room. 

It happens that way, sometimes. The harder cases that require your full attention, they make everything else disappear around them when you get close to them. You feel the familiar tug in your gut and you follow it towards the Greek and Roman exhibit. A man sits on a bench, a sketch pad in his lap and a pencil in his left hand. A loud snap reverberates around the hall from the now broken pencil in his hand. Something shiny glints on his hand like a glove and it takes you a long minute to realize that it isn’t _on_ his hand, it _is_ his hand. His _metal_ hand. 

Oh, dear. 

His long-sleeved maroon shirt stretches over his muscular frame as he bends over, clearly frustrated. You think you hear him mumble something. The words _‘no point anymore’_ reach you and you can feel your heart stretching towards him. 

You blink and you’re back in front of your tour group again; bored faces waiting for you to keep talking. You oblige, only because it’s your job and five agonizing minutes remain on the tour. As you walk your group back to the main lobby, you pass a teenager who’s desperately looking for inspiration. The details aren’t clear, probably an art project that you will never see, but your fingers ghost along his shoulders, just enough of your powers flowing into him to give him the edge he needed. Your stomach flutters happily at the transference of power and you smile to yourself. 

_Don’t forget to sacrifice to your muse_ , you think jokingly. Not that anyone does that anymore, but that was never what you and your sisters fed off anyway. You meander your way back towards the Greek and Roman exhibit, hoping that your next _favored_ is still there. A chime signaling the end of your day sounds as you enter the wing to find him sitting in the same spot, looking even more miserable. You take a hesitant step forward, but your natural charm fails you and you’re unsure how to proceed. 

He stiffens in his seat, back straightening a little and you briefly wonder what has set him on edge, but then he turns to look at you, his blue eyes hardening slightly. You almost cringe back under the intensity of it, but something tells you that would be the wrong move. 

“Do you know much about this piece?” you ask, taking another step forward, trying to exude calm despite your sudden nerves. 

He looks taken aback like he isn’t expecting that to come out of your mouth. His full lips parts slightly, and his guarded expression drops. “Um, no, not really. Just that I like it,” he says, his voice is deep but velvety smooth. “Is this exhibit closing already?” He asks and you tilt your head.

“No, not at all. I just noticed you admiring her,” you say, taking another step forward. “It’s one of my personal favorites.” you continue, eyeing the statue of yourself. The face was wrong, he would never know that it is you he has been staring at so intently. 

“She was very beautiful,” he says, his shoulders tensing as if he is ready to bolt at a second’s warning. Your gaze drops to his sketch pad where he has a few rough lines drawn, but not much else. 

“You know, we encourage people to draw and sketch the exhibits. You never know when inspiration will strike you to create your own work of art,” you tell him, taking another step forward. he gives a derisive snort and gathers up his papers and pieces of a broken pencil. The pencil is shoved into the pocket of his dark jeans, the pad tucked roughly under his right arm. 

“I was actually about to leave,” he says, dropping his gaze. You tip your head to one side, trying to figure out if he’s just intimidated by you, generally trying to give you the brush off, or completely not interested. That is difficult to believe since your powers allow you to shift your appearance to your favored’s preference. You almost can’t even remember what your original face looks like anymore, having changed so many times over the millennia. 

He is dangerously handsome, with a strong chiseled jawline that can cut marble. His dark hair is longer than was fashionable these days as if he had been too preoccupied to cut it for a long time and then just decided he liked it, but it fits him well. His tall frame is muscular and solid all over from what you can tell. He moves with an understated balance and grace that is hard to notice. 

“I’m Y/N.” you introduce yourself, taking another step forward. You couldn’t let him leave yet, he’s your next recipient, you can feel that desire to create taking root in your stomach, making you hungry; and so far, you have a perfect record. He looks up at you, finally meeting your gaze for longer than a few seconds. He is silent for a long time, so long that you are afraid he’s just going to ignore you, but then he speaks again. 

“James,” he said finally. You repeat his name softly, curling your mouth around it. Names have power in your world, and his name burns with it. 

“Would you like to get a cup of coffee, James?” you ask, praying to Zeus that he would say yes. You never had to be this forward with any of your others. Most of them practically tripped over themselves to get you to go out with them. You aren’t entirely sure that this is the right approach. 

“Aren’t you working?” he raises an eyebrow, his beautifully soft lips pulling down at the corners as his eyes dropped to your name badge. Your face flushes slightly. 

“I was actually about to leave for the day when I saw you,” you admit, gesturing towards the spot where he had been sitting. Something about his gaze is throwing off your usual charm, flustering you. Maybe it’s the way his eyes seemed like they could look right through you. Or the way he seemed to not want to look at you at all. 

“And you thought, hey, here’s a complete stranger, how about I ask him for coffee?” he says sarcastically and despite his tone, a smile tugs at your lips. 

“Actually, that sounds just about right,” you tell him, taking another step forward. “It’s just coffee, James. What’s the worst that can happen? Your plain black coffee gets cold while you’re waiting for me to stop rambling about something boring and so you have to make up an excuse to leave?” you pose, surprised to find that you’re a little worried that might really happen. 

“How do you know I would take it black?” he asks after a brief minute. 

“What?”

“My coffee, how did you know that I take it black?” he repeats. 

“You seem like a no-nonsense person. Men like that don’t add fluff like cream and sugar to their coffee,” you say, watching his reaction. He had been on edge a second ago, waiting for your answer, but now was a little more relaxed in his posture. His wide shoulders are still straight as an arrow, he isn’t slouching, but they aren’t as tense. 

“Just coffee?” he clarifies. 

“Just coffee,” you promise, holding up your hand. “And if I get too boring, you can just leave, you don’t even have to make up an excuse.” his lips twitch in response. Progress. 

“Alright. Coffee.” he agrees. You beam at him, genuinely happy he said yes. 

“Okay, let me go get my things, I’ll be right back.” you head off to the employee lounge as quickly as your heels allow, eager to get going and not keep the mysterious man waiting. You grab your purse and type your number quickly into the time machine. You head back to the Greek and Roman wing, cursing the designers who made the building this big and put the employee lounge at one end away from everything. You take a moment before you round into the room to make sure your hair is together and you don’t look like you just ran from one end of the museum to the other. 

“Okay, I’m ready-“ you start, looking around. James’ big frame and dashing good looks are nowhere to be found. “James?” You call, taking a few hesitant steps forward. Maybe he’s leaning against a column while he waits for you. You walk completely around the exhibit, finally moving on to another wing. By the time you reach the end of the museum, he’s nowhere. A small, defeated sigh escapes your lips. 

“Home alone again, I see,” you mumble as you head for the exit. You don’t hold up hope that he will be back the next day, either. You probably scared him away. Apparently, that happens sometimes. Not to you, of course, but you’ve heard from your sisters that some people just aren’t ready for greatness, or inspiration. They crave it, but they’re afraid of when it strikes.

**James**

“Hey, Buck.” Steve greets his best friend. The dark-haired man barely seems to notice him. “Buuuckyyy.” Steve intones, trying to get his attention. James Buchanan Barnes lifts his head and turns toward the sound. 

“Oh, hey, Steve,” he replies, finally taking notice. 

“Boy, it’s a good thing my feelings aren’t easily hurt.” Steve jokes, placing a large hand over his heart. “What’s the matter?”

“Just frustrated,” he says, shrugging his good shoulder. 

“About the arm?” Steve guesses. His best friend had been through a rough time over in the Middle East. The man who returned wasn’t the same man who had left, but Steve was doing his best to make him feel less like an outsider. Bucky wasn’t making it very easy, though. 

“Sure.” Bucky sighs and leans against one of the library’s solid wooden tables. It groans under his weight. Steve waits patiently, picking up a book, and pretending to skim through the pages. Give him enough time, and Bucky will eventually tell him everything. What was that saying? You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink? Steve had let Bucky know he’s there to listen, and now he just has to wait for Buck to decide he was ready. 

“I went back to the museum today,” he says finally. Steve looks up just in time to realize the book is actually upside down. 

“The one you and Nat-“ he starts and Bucky nods, cutting him off. 

“I don’t know what I was thinking. Nothing is the same. It took me ten minutes just to find out where they moved the Greek exhibit to.” Barnes sighs, running a hand through his too-long hair. Steve hasn’t said anything about him cutting it yet, wanting to let him deal with one thing at a time, but it’s starting to bug him slightly. 

“Things change. Nothing has to stay the same forever.” Steve says, trying to subtly remind his best friend that it’s okay that he’s a different person now. Although, it hasn’t done much good yet. 

“Some things should stay the same.” Bucky sighs again. “Like museums. Do you know how much time they wasted, moving all that stuff around for no reason?” he shakes his head. “And it doesn’t feel like-“ he cut himself off before finishing, but Steve gets the gist. 

“Home.” he finishes and Bucky nods, a look of annoyance flashing over his face. There’s no point in self-pity. Steve counts to fifteen in his head, judging the length of silence. 

“I went to see if Natasha was still working there,” he says. 

“Is she?” Steve asks. 

“No, they have a completely new staff, a new tour guide.” 

“I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve says, not knowing what else to do to help his friend. 

“She talked to me,” he says after another long minute. 

“What?” Steve asks, confused. 

“The new tour guide. She spoke to me. Asked me out for coffee.” Steve’s eyebrows creep slowly towards his hairline. 

“And you said?”

“I said yes,” Bucky admits, pushing off the table and walking around it. The act of turning his back on Steve seems intentional. 

“And when does this coffee date take place?” Steve presses. Bucky glances at the clock over the door. 

“Two hours ago. I chickened out.” Buck huffs. 

“You told her yes to coffee and then left her standing there?” he asks, trying hard to keep his tone away from incredulous, and yet failing miserably. 

“I panicked. She was so pretty, and I don’t want to get-“ Bucky falters. 

“Hurt again?” Steve guesses. It had barely been a year since Bucky had come home from the war and his fiancée Natasha Romanoff had left him, but Steve and the rest of Bucky’s friends think that he’s ready to get back out there. 

“What if I hurt her? What if I get attached and then I get careless with this?” he waves his metal left arm. “You know I can’t judge how hard-“ he faltered again. “No. It’s better that she stays away and stays safe.”

Steve rubs his face. “Buck, Tony is coming up with better and better technology all the time.” 

“Oh yeah? In the next ten minutes? Because if he can come up with a better arm by tomorrow that can allow me to hold a fucking pencil without snapping it in half, I’ll consider going out with a girl. One I don’t have to worry about killing when I pull her in close.” Bucky snaps, aiming a kick at the table. It scoots a few feet towards Steve, who just looks at it. “How about a way to take these damn memories out of my head so I don’t have to worry about waking up in the middle of the night trying to strangle someone? That would be even better.” 

Steve sits in silence, waiting. “I wish I could help, Buck.” He says finally when it seems his friend has calmed down a little. 

“Yeah, you and me both, pal.” Bucky scoffs. 

“I still think you should go apologize to that woman for standing her up. Talking to her won’t hurt you,” he says, heaving his own bulky frame up off a table and heading for the door. “Oh, and Nick wanted to see you in his office,” Steve tells him, disappearing out the swinging door. 

“Fuck.” Bucky presses his fists to his forehead and glares at the table he had kicked. “I hate it when he’s right.” A dull tendril of anxiety worms its way into his stomach. How can he expect anyone to trust him when he can’t even trust himself? Silently, he readjusts the table and chairs and leaves the massive library to find the director. What could Fury possibly want from him now?

***

The rain has been nonstop all day. You can hear it tapping on the roof of the museum. Thunder rumbles lowly, the sky is dark and gloomy. A perfect day for you to stay in bed and sulk. 

Unfortunately, you are stuck at work. No one wants to go to a museum while it’s pouring out, but you can’t leave. 

“What if people want to come in for a tour? And my best tour guide has decided to go home because of a little bad weather?” your boss rants when you bring it up to her. 

“No one is going to want to come in for a tour. You’d need a boat to even get up to the building,” you reply but she just stares you down until you huffed back to your desk.

Waiting.

For.

Nothing.

The museum stays empty all day long. You grow so bored that you pull out a piece of paper and begin to doodle. You draw the outline, added details, smudging in some shading.

_Gods_ were you bored. 

You drop your pencil in annoyance when you realize that you had sketched James in a perfect likeness. You don’t know how to deal with this kind of rejection. You’ve never had a favored who didn’t want to be around you. It leaves a sour taste in your mouth and a knot in the pit of your stomach. Who the hell does this James think he is anyway, to ignore the attention of a muse?

Someone clears their throat in front of you and you immediately flip the paper over face down. You look up and come face to face with a Styrofoam cup of coffee. 

“What-?” Blinking and looking past that, you see James standing awkwardly in front of your desk, holding out a cup for you. The steam curls out from under the lid and your mouth waters at the smell of him. 

It!

The smell of the coffee. 

Definitely. 

“I’m a jerk. And I’m sort of working on it,” he says quietly. You take the cup of coffee from him slowly. His fingers brush yours, sending a small electric current up your arm. 

“Is that an apology?” you ask after a minute. He nods once. He was dripping wet, his hair pushed back from his face, a few strands escaping to hang in front of his forehead. His leather jacket is speckled with water droplets and he has pooled a small body of water under his boots. 

“It was brought to my attention yesterday that what I did was a dick move.” he trails off. “Anyway. I owed you a cup of coffee, so.” he shrugs one massive shoulder awkwardly. “I panicked.” 

“Oh.” you shift your coffee, noticing he’s taken his in his right hand. “I didn’t realize I was that scary,” you say, trying to lighten the mood. He finally looks up from his shoes, a small smile playing at his lips.

“Oh, you’re absolutely terrifying,” he says softly. He looks around curiously. “I’ve never seen this place so empty.” 

“It’s the rain,” you say, standing up and stepping out from behind your desk. “Save my sanity and walk around with me? If I sit there any longer I’m afraid I’ll start talking to inanimate objects.”

“Now that would be entertaining.” he muses but falls in step next to you nonetheless.

“I suppose I should apologize for being so forward yesterday,” you tell him as you make your way through the first exhibit. 

“I’m just not...” he sighed. You tilt your head, waiting for him to finish. “Good at this.” 

You look at him curiously. “Good at what?”

“People. Not anymore.” he shakes his head, causing more strands to fall into his face, and you have to resist the urge to brush them back into place. 

“Jesus, James. It was just coffee, I wasn’t asking you to go steady or anything.” 

He looks at you for a second before laughing quietly. “I could find my letterman jacket for you to wear.” he returns. 

“Oh yeah? And what sport did you play?” you ask, liking this teasing side of him.

“Bowling.” he manages with a straight face. You laugh loudly. 

“I didn’t know they gave out letterman jackets to the bowling team.” 

“Oh, no they didn’t. I stole it from this jerk as a prank,” he replies. “What about you? Any sports?”

“Hmm. Nothing that constitutes a sport. I was pretty good at science and art back in the day.” you say, referring to back in Ancient Greece, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

“Oh really? A nerd then?”

“Says the guy who bowled.” you make a face and he laughs. 

“That’s fair.” 

You stop in front of your favorite section, Van Gogh, and push open the doors. He follows you in silently. You are amazed at how a man so big can move without a single sound. 

“Did you get any more done on your sketch?” you ask, turning to him. Immediately his face turns guarded. 

“No. I went back to work,” he said, pausing in front of one of Van Gogh’s self-portrait. 

“And what do you do?” you ask him curiously. 

“I’m a paramedic. Or, I used to be. Now I work security for an architectural firm, but mostly I just feel like a guinea pig for our in-house scientists.” he says, his handsome face turning into a scowl and you are beginning to get a sense of just how dangerous this man could be. 

“What kind of architecture company has an in-house scientist?” you ask, feeling a little defensive for him. 

“The kind that likes to experiment on ‘energy-saving innovations to create the home of the future’,” he says mockingly. You feel your eyebrows rise in surprise.

“You work for SHIELD?” you ask incredulously. 

“You’ve heard of them?” he asks, tearing his gaze away from the portrait. 

“Who hasn’t? They’re only the biggest firm in the history of the world. They have contracts all over the globe and a finger in every pie. And I’m sure a lot more the public doesn’t know about.” you ramble, feeling impressed, but at the same time like you’ve stepped into something you shouldn’t have.

“Yeah... that’s them,” he says dejectedly. 

“How did you get involved with them? I’ve heard their hiring process is ridiculously selective,” you say, finding this man even more of a mystery the more you learn about him. 

“I got offered a job as security after... after the towers fell.” he clears his throat. 

The towers... 

You tilt your head, almost asking what towers before you remember the terrorist attack on 9/11. A tragedy, a waste of so many lives on both sides. You’ve seen countless wars, tried to help as many of the _chaménos_ , the lost, as you could. Now there’s medicine to help them regain their minds, but it hadn’t always been that way. Not so long ago, at least to you, they were stuck in horrible institutions and it was called ‘shell-shock’. No matter the era, no matter the conflict, it always pulled at your heart to see mortals suffer so terribly. 

“You joined the armed forces?” There it was, that tension again like he is preparing himself for an attack. “Sorry. I shouldn’t pry. It’s none of my business.” The silence rings in your ears as you struggle to figure out how to speak again. You don’t want him to block you out again. 

“The army,” he says, so quietly that you almost miss it. “As a medic.” He takes a breath as if preparing to speak, but closes his mouth before he can say anything. Before you can second-guess yourself, you put your delicate hand over his big one, letting some of your magic flow into him before he flinched away. Not to inspire him, or manipulate him, just to calm his nerves slightly. 

“James, if you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t make you,” you say sincerely. Your whole being is geared toward making people feel truly good and inspired, guiding them towards the steps that would lead to greatness. Not to make them relive the worst moments of their lives, that was never your goal. 

He turns to look at you, his blue eyes burning into you. So intense that you couldn’t even think about looking away, that was until a chime echoed somewhere in the museum. You blink, searching for the source of the noise that distracted you. 

“What was that?” James asks, looking around. It’s slow to register. 

“What time is it?” you ask and he extends his right wrist towards you. You tilt the military watch and see that it’s just five o’clock. Slowly, reluctantly, you release his wrist, your fingers brushing against his warm skin. 

“Are you hungry?” you ask him. 

His dark eyebrows pull together in confusion. “What?”

“Dinner. Food. I assume you eat.” you say and he cracks a smile. 

“Yes, I eat.”

“Can I make you dinner? As thanks for saving me from crushing boredom?” 

He nods slowly. “I’d appreciate that.”

“Well, just wait until you taste my cooking, and then we’ll talk about how much you appreciate it,” you say teasingly. He chuckles. 

“Do you need to go get your things?” he asks, gesturing in the direction you had disappeared to yesterday. You take a step and hesitate, looking back at him. “I’ll follow you this time,” he promises. You walk past him towards the employee lounge, turning a few times to make sure he was still behind you. 

“Why would they put it all the way over here?” he asks once you reach the door. 

“Because they’re idiots.” you huff. You punch in the code and open the door, propping it open for him to follow. 

“It’s quiet in here,” he comments. 

“The walls are soundproofed. I guess they realized we would need a break from hearing the kids running around the museum,” you say, glancing back at him. He leans against the doorway, taking up most of it, muscular arms crossing over his broad chest. Gods, those arms could be dangerous for your imagination. You quickly grab your purse and coat before clocking out. 

His eyes are calculating as he looks around. “No cameras? I figured they’d be everywhere,” he says, stepping back to let you out. 

“No, employee privacy and all that,” you reply, leading him back through the museum. 

He rolls his eyes but otherwise remains silent. 

“So, they’re not doing inhuman experiments on you, right? Otherwise, I’d be very mad for you.” you start again. 

He looks at you for a full beat before laughing, louder than you have heard him yet, and the sound was glorious. 

“As much as I _say_ Tony is inhuman, no. He’s actually really good at what he does and despite his ego, he and his lab partner, Bruce, have been really good to me since I got back. Not everyone has.”

“Back as in state-side?” you ask, approaching the bank of entry doors. _Shit._ The rain hasn’t let up one bit. 

He nods, moving ahead of you and opening the door for you. You didn’t have an umbrella, but it didn’t matter, it was just a few blocks to the subway and then a few blocks home. 

“And how long have you been home?” you venture, trying to judge how far was too far. 

“About ten months.” he keeps his pace slower to match yours, even though with his long legs he could have been halfway to your place by now. 

“That must be quite the adjustment.” you comment, holding your hand out for balance as you teeter down the steps in your heels. He places his hand just an inch or so under yours, ready to catch you if you fall. 

“You have no idea.” 

When you reach the bottom, you test your balance in your heels before dropping your hand. 

“What about your friends? Are they able to help you?” you ask, heading for your train car. 

“They try. And a lot of them get it, quite a few of them have served in different military backgrounds. But...” he trailed off. 

“It’s different for everyone,” you say, having a basic idea of where he was going with it, not needing all the details to finish his thought. 

He meets your gaze. “Something like that.” You both step into the waiting car and realize it’s packed. There’s no place for either of you to sit, and barely enough room to stand. You’re left with one handlebar to share and thankfully you’ve worn heels, otherwise, you never could have reached it to grip. The doors hiss shut and the train begins to move forward, rocking you a little bit. You both grasp the bar facing each other, which seems like a good idea, until people jostle by and James is pressed forward, your face now getting a close-up view of the weave of his shirt. His cologne floods your senses, heightened by the rain and his body heat. He’s like a furnace, even just standing this close to him, you’re already warming back up from the rain. 

You both fall silent, understanding that this is not the place to carry on such a personal conversation. The train car was loud, people talking and raising their voices to be heard, a never-ending cycle. 

“How long is your commute, usually?” he asks, having to look down at you. 

“About fifteen to twenty minutes,” you reply. It has never felt so excruciatingly long before. You’re irritated at all these mortals who are stopping you from getting to know him more. You know, somewhere deep down, you’re aware of how selfish and petty that makes you sound. However, right now, all you care about and can think about is working out the mystery that this man poses to you.

“That’s pretty good for being in the city,” he comments. The train picks up speed. 

“Yeah, not too bad. Although, my apartment is nothing glamorous.” you smile. 

“Who needs glamorous? My apartment barely passes as functional,” he says with a teasing grin. You laugh, swaying into him a little as the train hurtles forward. Your hand braces against the span of his chest so you don’t end up getting a face full of shirt. 

_Gods_ , could he have been any more solid?

“Sorry.” you apologize quietly. 

“It’s alright.” 

Very swiftly, and without warning, the brakes on the train screech. The cars lurch violently, throwing you off your balance. People screamed as they fell against the windows and out of their seats. The subway car leans to the side sharply and your already unstable grip slips from the handlebar. You felt yourself falling away from his warm body. Your stomach rises into your chest with a sense of weightlessness as you grab for the handle that is now out of your reach. Your mouth opens in a silent cry as you wait for the impact of the cold, dirty floor. 

It never comes. 

Your ribs collide painfully with something unforgiving and solid as an impossibly strong arm wraps around you. James, who has somehow not lost his hold on the handle, catches you with his left arm and pulls you tight against his chest. Your hands curl into his shirt as you cling to him. The carriage is still rocking and teetering, but he manages to stay righted, while everyone else around you has fallen or stumbled somehow. 

You meet his gaze as the train settles back on all wheels and open your mouth to tell him thank you. He immediately withdrew his arm, shying away. 

“I’m sorry. Shit, are you okay? Did I hurt you?” he asks, his eyes roaming over you and his hands halfway raising towards you without actually touching you. 

“Am I okay? You saved me. I should be on the floor with a concussion.” you say, letting your hands slide down his chest slowly before pulling them away completely. He looks around as people start to get back up. The train didn’t even stop to check if anyone had been hurt. 

“So, uh, do you always... you know... fall for guys you just meet?” he asks, the tips of his ears turning pink. You stare at him for a minute. Was that... a pick-up line? 

“Only when they save me from almost certain death.” you laugh. 

“Nah, just some minor contusions. Nothing too serious,” he says, relaxing into the joke. 

“I really am grateful, James,” you say, meeting his gaze again. His eyes dropping to your mid-section, what looks like a twinge of regret in his expression, before moving back up to your face. 

“I couldn’t let you fall,” he says as the train begins to slow. You glance up at the sign announcing which station was coming up. 

“This is us.” you gesture as the train came to a fast stop, sending you into James one more time. 

“This is a really terrible train,” he comments, holding your hand to steady you as the doors creak open. He guides you out and releases you once your legs are steady. 

“Tell me about it.” you lead him up the stairs and back out into the rain. The wind has picked up a little, but it isn’t far to your apartment. 

You unlock the door and step inside, holding the door open for him. The air inside is cool, making you shiver slightly. You shrug out of your coat and hang it up on the coat rack by the door. He copies you and shuts the door behind him. 

“I think I have some dry clothes if you’d like to stick those in the dryer.” you offer, balancing on one foot to pull off your heels. 

“I don’t think you have anything that would fit me in the meantime,” he replies and you turn to look at him, a grin tugging at his lips. 

“Very funny.” you chuckle, walking through your apartment, tossing your keys into a dish by the door. It’s a cozy space; plush couches and armchairs arch around a big-screen television set mounted on the wall next to the door, with a solid oak cabinet underneath housing a cable box, DVD player, and an assortment of DVDs; most of which you haven’t touched in a long time. A dining room table Is pressed to the far wall behind the couch with only two chairs. A large kitchen takes up the most of the left side of the apartment, a small washer and dryer closet in the back-left corner; your bedroom takes up the whole right side. Hardwood floors run the whole space, so you have a comfortably worn Greek designed rug under the living room furniture. Just a little taste of home. 

“They’re my last... boyfriend’s clothes, but I’m fairly certain they’ll fit you,” you call as you disappear into your bedroom. You unzip your dress, letting it pool around your feet as you pull on a pair of yoga leggings and a tank top. Your dress is tossed into the dirty laundry basket as you rummage through your drawers before finding what you were looking for. You walk back out and hand him the pair of jeans and a tee-shirt. 

“You can get changed in my room.” you offer, gesturing him in. He heads that way and you walk into the kitchen as the bedroom door clicked shut. You try not to think about him in your bedroom as you pull out things for dinner, the meat for meatballs, the sauce you had made yesterday, and a box of pasta. 

“James, you eat meat, right?” you call, filling a pot with water. The door opens and he steps out with his wet clothes in hand. 

“What was that?” he asks. The blue shirt is tight across his chest, but your gaze is drawn to his left arm. His incredibly silver left arm. It isn’t just his hand that is metal, the whole limb is a prosthetic. Suddenly the dull pain in your ribs makes sense. You pull your gaze back to his face before he can catch you staring. 

“Oh, I asked if you eat meat.” You repeat, adding oil and salt to the water before putting it on to boil.

“Nope, strictly rabbit food for me,” he says, moving closer. You freeze and turn to look at him. Not a single thing in your apartment is vegan. He holds a straight face for three full seconds before breaking into a smile. “Just kidding. Yes, I eat meat. What are you making?”

“Spaghetti and meatballs, if that’s alright with you.”

“Oh, um, sure. That’s fine.” There is something in his tone that makes you hesitate, but you don’t know what could be so worrisome about spaghetti and meatballs. 

“Here, let’s get your clothes in the dryer,” you say, coming around the counter and taking the bundle for him. The jeans were a little short on him, but then, your last favored had not been built like the man in front of you. Your fingers brush against the metal of his left hand and he pulls back almost immediately. You toss his clothes into the dryer with a dryer sheet and set it for a timed dry. You walk back out to see him flexing the fingers on his metal hand like they had lost feeling. He catches you looking and immediately drops his hand again. 

“Everything alright?” you ask carefully as you walk back into the kitchen. He sits at the island, gingerly easing his big frame into a chair. It groans slightly under his weight. His face is guarded again. 

“Yeah, just... sometimes it doesn’t work right,” he grumbles. 

“It looks like very advanced technology.” you comment, your eyes dropping to it as you open packages of meat into a large bowl. He snorts. 

“Yeah, it looks like it.” his tone is sarcastic, dejected. You frown, wiping your hands on a towel before coming around the island. 

“May I?” you ask, holding out your hands palm-up. 

“I don’t really-“ he starts before meeting your gaze. He hesitates, his blue eyes searching your face for something. You’re merely curious. He puts the cool metal in your hand, holding it very still. You run your fingers lightly over the plating on the back before turning it over and tracing his palm. He shivers slightly and you meet his gaze. 

“You can feel that?” he nodded. 

“I can feel that it’s warm and soft,” he answers quietly. 

“This is incredibly advanced. Years beyond anything the public is seeing.” you muse, your fingers tracing their way up his forearm. 

“That’s...mostly Tony. He goes nuts whenever it’s time for an upgrade.” James sighs, blue eyes closing. 

“Why are these plates linked together like this? It’s not just one solid piece?” you ask, your fingers fluttering around his forearm and elbow.

“Better movement? The way it was explained to me is that it’s almost like a computer. Inside is hollow, filled with wires and chips and who knows what else, controlling motor functions, sensory receptors, and a bunch of other stuff. So, the plates open for easier access. But this wasn’t Tony’s design. He just works on the hardware inside.” your hands travel up his bicep, perfectly sculpted to mirror his real one. 

“Is this bothering you?” you ask gently as your fingertips brush against the fabric of the shirt sleeve. 

“No, not at all.” 

“How far up does it go?” you ask. He pushes the sleeve up over the round of his shoulder, exposing even more metal, and something else you aren’t expecting. A crimson red star in the middle of his shoulder, like a tattoo, or a brand. You trace the mark, your touch feather-light. “Did you have this tattoo before? On your real arm?” you ask quietly, not wanting to be rude. He shakes his head, his shoulders easing down slightly. 

“No, that was there when I... when I woke up,” he says, his eyes opening. You pull the sleeve back down, fingers trailing back to his hand. 

“How much dexterity do you have?” you hold up his hand, palm facing you. You press your mirroring hand to his, marveling at how much bigger it is than yours. He’s quiet for a long minute, watching you. You meet his gaze, waiting for him to answer. 

“Not much,” he admits. “I have motor skills, I can hold things and grip them, but I can’t tell how much force I’m putting behind it,” he says, maybe a little guiltily? The broken pencil flashes in your mind, and suddenly things are falling into place. His gaze drops back towards your midsection again, this time with a point.

It takes your brain a long minute to catch up. “You mean when you saved me?” you ask. 

“If you don’t have bruises shaped like an arm, I’ll cook _you_ dinner next time.” 

You snort, waving the matter away. “Oh, I’m holding you to that. I’ve had bruises before. I’m not even worried about it. Besides, I can think of worse things to have bruises from. Are you right-handed, or left?” you ask, pulling away from him a little reluctantly. 

“Left.” 

“So that would put a damper on your art,” you say, recalling the barely formed sketch. 

“Not that I was that great before,” he says, watching you move back around into the kitchen. You dump the water out of the pot and put the spaghetti away. “What are you doing?” he asks, starting to stand up. 

“Changing my mind,” you answer, reaching for the bag of potatoes in your pantry. 

“I’m upsetting you, you want me to leave. That makes sense.” his tone is painful and hurts you more than you were expecting. You poke your head out. 

“What? No, sit back down. I have a million more questions.” you tell him, ducking back in to grab some spices and breadcrumbs. 

“You-you actually want me to stay?” he seems surprised. 

“Of course, dummy.” You set the potatoes on the counter. 

“Then... what did you change your mind about?” he asks, confused. 

“What I’m making for dinner. Meatball sandwiches and fries sound better,” you say, dumping the potatoes into the sink. 

“You aren’t freaked out?” he asks, easing himself back into the chair. 

“No, why? Is that the reaction you get a lot?” you ask. He runs a hand through his black hair. 

“No, I don’t really tell a lot of people. Mostly I keep it out of sight.” he watches you work. “Can I help at all?” 

“Scrub potatoes? I’m going to assume that would be better than asking you to mix meat with your hands,” you say and he takes a minute before smiling at you. 

“True.” He gets up and moves around to stand next to you. While he scrubs the root vegetables clean, you begin to dump ingredients into the meatball mixture, chopping up bread cubes and adding some cold water before you begin to mix everything, squishing the meat in your hands. You’re quiet for a long minute, a question burning on your lips. Well, several questions, but you don’t want to push your luck. 

“Don’t you want to know?” he asks, glancing down at you next to him. You spread a small amount of oil on a cookie sheet to keep the meatballs from sticking. 

“There are so many things I want to know, I don’t even know where to start. But I don’t want to pry into something you don’t want to talk about,” you say to him, scooping out a small amount of meat and forming a ball. 

“I’ll make you a deal, you keep taking all of this so ridiculously well, and I will answer anything that I can. If you ask something I don’t feel comfortable talking about, I will let you know.” He says nervously, glancing up at you.

“Are you sure?” you ask and he nods in response. “How did it happen?” he sets the last potato in the sink and turns to look for something. 

“You don’t waste any time. It happened while I was serving overseas. They say it’s a desert, but there are still mountain ranges and I... well, long story short, I found myself at the bottom of one, almost ...” he cut off abruptly, but the idea isn’t hard to follow. He turns around with a cutting board and a knife. “I don’t remember very much about what happened next, a few shapes moving me, pulling me somewhere.” he shakes his head, and your stomach clenches. The tightness in his shoulders and back make it very clear he doesn’t like talking about this. 

“James, you don’t have to.” you offer, but he ignores you and keeps talking. 

“When I woke up, a long time later, I had a new arm but I was _not_ with friends.” The realization hits a second later. Prisoner-of-War.

“Oh. Oh no, James,” you whisper. He nods, cutting up the potatoes into fries. “How long?” He was silent for a long time. Placing the baking sheet in the oven, you set a timer and set to work on the next tray. 

“It felt like forever,” he answers finally. “My friend, Steve, was waiting for me after it happened. I woke up in a hospital and he was there. He told me it had been just over four years since I went missing.” your stomach plummets.

“Four years?” you repeat, stunned. 

“I thought it would never end, and when it did...” he shakes his head. “Well, I’m still not handling it very well.” 

“Oh, James. You don’t have anyone to talk to? Anyone who knows what it’s like? I assume your friends that served, the ones you were telling me about before, they’ve never gone through what you have.” you say, annoyance at these people who failed to take care of him and left him behind simmering in your veins. He shakes his head, the knife holding steady in his metal hand, but would shaky nerves like that really transfer to a steadfast inanimate object like that?

“They’ve all had their own losses and stuff to deal with. Steve, by the time he came back, his girlfriend Peggy had up and left him. Sam lost his best friend, Riley, over there, they were para-rescue troopers. Everybody has their own shit to deal with. They understand what coming back is like.” His tone is even, not judgmental, but you can read between the lines. You, having never been through anything even remotely similar, would never understand. 

“You said Steve’s girlfriend left. What about you? Girlfriend? Wife.... husband?” He actually laughs out loud, and you allow yourself a smile at that. 

“Fiancée, but... I was....um.” he clears his throat. “Difficult, when I came back. I don’t blame her for leaving.” 

A lick of jealousy heats your stomach. “She waited three years for you to come home and then left?” You click on the deep fryer. 

He smiles down at you. “You sound like Steve. You’d like him.” He rinses off the potatoes and steps back to let you wash your hands. “It was just as hard on Natasha as it was on me. It was like a completely different person had come back instead of the man she agreed to marry.” You grab a big bowl and the canister of flour on the counter as you listen to him talk. “But, anyway.”

“So, the experiments that this Tony character is doing on you? They relate to the arm?” you ask. 

He nods. “I’m still not comfortable with it.” 

“Do you think your loss of dexterity’s a hard drive issue? Or a compatibility issue?” you ask, dredging the fries in the flour and putting them in the deep fryer. 

“I’m not sure. That’s what they’re trying to figure out. Until then, I’m security, since I’m not much good for anything else.”

“First of all, you’re good for plenty. You cut up those potatoes perfectly, so restaurant work is definitely an option. Second of all, you saved me on the train, and you’re so warm that if the heating ever goes out in my building, I know who I’m calling.” he cracks a smile as the timer goes off on the stove. 

“All the same, I’ll be glad when I can do what I love again,” he says, turning and grasping the sheet with his metal hand, removing it and setting it on top of the stove. 

“Also, useful. Look at how much I’ll save on oven mitts,” you comment as you hand him the second tray. He places it in the oven and turns around to face you. 

“Now what?” You pointed to the container of sauce on the counter behind him. 

“We need to heat up the sauce. It won’t take long and we don’t need all of it.” you pull out a smaller saucepan and hand it to him. He grabs a spoon out of the utensil container on the counter and ladles some into the pan. You pull open the fridge. 

“Do you want a beer or something?” you offer, pulling out a bottle of your favorite wine. 

“Sure.” he stirs the sauce and turns the heat on medium before turning back to you. You hand him the already opened bottle and get down a stemless glass for yourself. “So, I’ve done most of the talking this far. It’s your turn.” He watches as you shake the fryer basket before pouring yourself some wine. 

“Alright, what do you want to know?” you ask, a flicker of nervousness starting in the palms of your hands. 

“Where are you from? Your accent- I can’t really place it.” he tilts his head curiously and you find the gesture adorable. 

“Greece. I moved to England for a time and now I’m here.”

“And what brought you here?” he asks. The flame of Western Civilization, but that’s not a good answer. 

You get out a plate and put a paper towel down on it for the fries. “Culture, I studied art and science in England, and I had an opportunity to do something with that over here.” you shrug, grabbing the basket and dumping the crispy fries on the paper towel. “I teach a class on art history at the university down the road and I lead tours at the museum.” You sprinkle a little sea salt on the fries and some oregano before adding more to the fryer. 

“And that’s what you want to do? You enjoy teaching and touring?” he asks. There isn’t a mocking tone to his question, more curious.

“I like teaching, inspiring young minds. Or helping ones set in their ways find new ways to create. The museum, I took the job to be close to the history. I don’t really care about the tours, none of the people who take them do anyway. At first, I was all excited, going to make history interesting again, but it’s hard to stay that way when they just stare at me with these blank expressions.” you blow out a sigh. 

“Any siblings?” he asks you as you stir the sauce and shake the fries. 

“Sisters, eight of them.” Your face blanches a little. 

His eyebrows creep up his forehead. “Eight?” he lets out a low whistle. “Thanksgiving must be crazy at your house,” he says with a chuckle. 

“You have no idea.” you mutter, thinking of the crazy parties you used to go to in the Great Throne Room on Mount Olympus. “We don’t really see each other a lot, though.” 

“Don’t get along?”

“Something like that.” you clear your throat and dump the rest of the fries out onto the plate. “What about you? Any siblings?” 

He shook his head. “Nope. Only child. No family left to speak of.” he shrugs. 

“We just have so much in common.” you quip, taking a big sip of your wine. 

He laughs. “And yet here we are, having an enjoyable evening,” he says, tilting his beer in your direction. 

“Who would have thought?” The timer goes off on the stove again and he gets up, removing the sheet. “Will you just scoop those into the sauce? After that, it’s all ready.” 

“It smells really good.” you grab the sub rolls and slice them open, sprinkling shredded mozzarella on the inside. Once everything is ready, you carried them over to the table. 

“Want another beer?” you offer. 

“I’ll get it, you go ahead and sit.” he opens the fridge and comes back with a beer for himself and more wine for you. 

**Bucky**

Dinner was much more fun than he had been expecting. He can’t remember the last time he had that much fun with anyone, let alone a beautiful woman, in a very long time. And to make it even better, she isn’t repulsed by his arm, instead, taking an interest and asking questions. He’s almost sorry when it’s time to go. 

Almost. 

He definitely isn’t ready to stay. Despite how open and accepting she was, he really doesn’t think she would appreciate being attacked in the middle of the night when he gets plagued with one of his nightmares. He has never opened so much so quickly to someone he barely knew before, even before his time in that horrible place. But there’s just something about Y/N that he can’t help but trust. 

“Thanks for dinner,” he tells her as he shrugs into his jacket. 

“I look forward to next time,” she tells him with a small smirk. His face heats slightly and before he can second guess himself, he ducks down and presses a swift kiss to her cheek.

“Goodnight, Y/N.” he turns and leaves the apartment, heading quickly outside. The smell of her flooding his senses, clinging to his still warm from the dryer clothes, his skin. It’s intoxicating. It takes the entire twenty-minute walk home for him to become accustomed to it and gain control of himself again. 

He fumbles with the key to his apartment and pushes open the door. He needs to start learning how to use his right hand for this stuff. 

The light in his kitchen was on, and he’s certain when he left this morning that he had turned it off. 

“You’re out of beer.” an annoyingly familiar voice says from his living room. 

“Jesus, Steve. What are you doing just sitting in the dark?” Bucky sighs, flipping on the light. 

“We were supposed to be hanging out.” his best friend says, pushing himself up off the leather couch. 

“Oh shit. I forgot about that.” Bucky rubs his face, getting another whiff of her perfume from his shirt sleeve. 

“Bucky, I’m trying, really I am.” Steve starts. 

“I took your advice and apologized to Y/N. She invited me over for dinner. I just forgot, Stevie. I’m sorry.” he says, heading for his kitchen. 

Steve freezes for a full minute, watching him, trying to determine if he was joking or not. “What, and you said yes?”

“No, I told her no and then disappeared for four hours,” Bucky replies sarcastically. 

“How’d it go?” Steve asks, ignoring the sarcasm. 

“Really good,” Bucky answers honestly. 

“Are you gonna see her again? What’d she say about the arm? Give me details, man.” 

Bucky laughs. “I think I am, but I don’t want to overwhelm her. She asked some questions, I told her vaguely what happened to me, she seems okay with it. She was touching it-“ Bucky stops, wishing he hadn’t said anything. 

“Was it weird for you?” Steve asks, leaning against the counter. “Was it as good for her as it was for you?” he smirks. “And, are we talking about the same body part here?”

“The weirdest part about this is your sense of humor. Jackass.” Bucky mutters, but his ears burned pink. “Actually, what was so weird was that she was so accepting about it,” he says, getting a glass of water. “I can’t believe you drank all my beer.”

“I’ll buy you more. Am I gonna get to meet her?” Steve asks impatiently. 

“Probably. _Jesus_. I don’t know. It was just dinner for one night.” Bucky says exasperatedly. “We didn’t make any plans.” Bucky realizes belatedly what a mistake that was, not making plans. 

“Did you get her number? Does she know about-“ Steve starts, gesturing between the two of them.

“Don’t you think the bionic arm was enough for one day? You want to add a traumatized super soldier to her pile of shit to deal with?” 

Steve chuckled. “Alright, fair enough. How much does she know about when you were captured?” Steve asks carefully. This is always a touchy subject with his best friend. 

“She knows it was for four years, I lost my arm... other than that... nothing.” Bucky had been reluctant to tell her even that much. 

“I think you should see her again,” Steve says. 

“I hear you. Let me just see how it plays out okay?”

“Fine. Do you still wanna hang out?” Steve offers. 

“Yeah. Poker?” Bucky looks up at the blond-haired man. 

“Yeah. You still owe me ninety bucks.”

“No way, man. I’m kicking your ass 87:63.”

“You wish.”

***

Second to the Van Gogh exhibit, the Greek and Roman wing is your favorite. So many good memories, so many tributes to you and your sisters, what’s not to love? 

The rain has continued today, so you had brought your sketch pad in anticipation of being bored. Currently, you’re seated in front of a statue of Cupid, drawing your own version, the way he really looks. His beauty is almost painful to look at, all sharp angles and flat planes as if he were carved from glass and came to life.

“I hope this one isn’t talking to you, either.” A voice says behind you, startling you so bad your hand jerks over the paper. You let out a surprised yelp and turn around to see James standing behind you. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly, peering over your shoulder at the now ruined drawing. 

“It’s alright. For someone so big, you move very quietly.” you comment, sliding over on the bench to make room for him. He sits and hands you a cup before taking the pad off your lap. You took a sip while he looked at it. The hot chocolate is unexpectedly sweet on your tongue and you pull back from it in surprise. 

“I figured if I keep bringing you coffee, you’re going to get the jitters. Besides, rainy days are good for hot chocolate,” he says, glancing at you. 

“It’s really good, I was just expecting coffee.” you smile, bracing your arm against the backside of the bench and leaning into him a little. You also like the idea of him coming to see you every day. 

“You’ve made his face harsher,” he comments, looking back at the statue. 

“Love is harsh.” you shrug. “It only makes sense that he would reflect that.” 

“Huh.” he passes the paper back to you. 

“So, to what do I owe the very nice surprise?” you ask, sipping at your warm drink. You hadn’t realized it before, but a chill had crept into the empty museum and you’re grateful for the extra heat of him next to you.

“I thought we could do dinner again...” he starts hesitantly. 

“I would love to. How do you feel about Mexican food? There’s this really great place near my apartment.” you offer, standing up.

“I could eat Mexican.” he stands up beside you and follows you toward the staff lounge. You glance at him curiously as you unlocked the door. 

“You’re not leaving work early to be here with me, are you?” you ask and he shrugs. 

“It’s not like they’ll miss me. They have plenty of other guys to protect them. They won’t miss one semi-stable guy.” he grins at you. He seemed different today, more at ease around you. You clocked out one minute after five, grabbed your purse, and turned to him. 

“Just make sure you don’t get in trouble because of me, I would feel terrible,” you say, placing a hand on his arm. 

“Don’t worry. The only time anyone is ever looking for me is when Tony wants to mess around with this.” he gestures to his left arm before offering you his right. You link your arm through his, feeling a definite sense of progress, your stomach fluttering happily. 

“Has he made any progress?” you ask, popping your umbrella that you remembered this morning over you both as you head for the subway.

“No. Steve says to give him time and he’s trying his best. I mean, the man is a genius when it comes to mechanics and science or whatever, but I’m beginning to think this might be a little beyond him.”

“Is there anybody he can consult with on it?” you ask as he helps you down the subway stairs. 

“If there is, I don’t know about it. I’m just sort of along for the ride,” he says, taking your umbrella once you’re out of the rain. He shakes it off and closes it, keeping it by his side. The train ride is uneventful as opposed to last night’s before you both make your way to the Mexican restaurant. 

As before, James stays for a few hours, sharing more about his life with you before leaving for the night. He lingers at the door this time as if regretting having to leave. You’re almost tempted to ask him to stay, but he clearly needs more time. 

Every day for two weeks James would bring you hot chocolate before the end of your shift and every night, you two would have dinner. 

“Are you sure I’m not keeping you from anything important? Anyone important?” James asks one night as he pours you more wine. 

“I am one hundred percent positive that I have nowhere else I would rather be right now than here with you,” you promise, leaning toward him a little as you slice tomatoes. He smiles, a content sort of look. You clear your throat, glancing down before you slice off a finger. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“There’s something I want to ask you. I’ve been putting it off for a little bit, I don’t want you to feel obligated,” you start but a knock at your front door cuts you off. His head snaps up, ever on alert. 

“Are you expecting someone?” he asks. You shake your head. 

“It might be my neighbor, he forgets his keys sometimes,” you say, wiping your hands and heading for the door. “I’ll be right back.” You disappear into the foyer and peek through the eyehole. “Damn it.” you mutter, pulling the door open. 

“Hey, Y/N.”

“What are you doing here, Brock?” you snap, ignoring the flowers and bottle of cheap wine in his hands. Brock Rumlow has not taken no for an answer in three years. 

“Our date. Remember? You said once I got back into town-“ you roll your eyes, hating his smug face. 

“Brock, my exact words were ‘I would see you when you got back’. As in, visually see you, not date you. I’ve told you before, I’m not interested. And now that I’ve seen you, you can leave.” you glance back towards the direction of your kitchen. 

“How do you know if you’ve never tried?” he asks, nudging the door open wider. 

“Because I have a brain.” you mutter, grabbing the door to keep him from entering. 

“Look, let’s just try dinner, and if you don’t like it, I’ll leave.” he offers, trying to get further into the apartment and you know immediately that he’s lying. It would start with dinner and then lead to anything else he could get his grubby disgusting hands on. 

“No. No date, no dinner. How did you even find out where I lived?” you press your hands against his chest, trying to get him back out. His eyes dart behind you and widen slightly. You barely turn when you feel James’ presence behind you. 

“Y/N, is everything alright?” he asks. 

“Rumlow was just leaving,” you say icily. James slings his right arm around you, pressing his chest tight against your back as he fills the doorway. 

“Goodnight, Rumlow,” he says with a smirk and shuts the door, forcing him completely out of the apartment. You let out a sigh and relax back against James’ chest, feeling the steady _thump-thump_ of his heart. “You alright?” he asks, pressing a kiss to the top of your head gently. 

“I’m so sorry about that. I don’t know how he even found out I lived here,” you say as he turns and guides you back to the kitchen. 

“Ex-boyfriend?” he guesses. 

“Co-worker. He’s been trying to get me to go out with him for a while.” you shake your head, pressing knuckles against your eyes until you see spots.

“Well, then it’s a good thing I was here, otherwise who knows what he would have done.” James chuckles, easing back onto the barstool. You turn in his arm to face him with a smile. 

“It’s always a good thing you’re here, stalkers or not,” you tell him quietly and place a hand gently on his cheek. He clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck.

“So, I was wondering if you wanted to come to my place tomorrow for dinner instead,” he says, his voice quiet like he was afraid you would say no. Your eyes widen slightly in surprise. “I understand if you don’t want to, I just thought it might be a nice-“

“I’d love to,” you say, cutting him off. His whole face brightens when he smiles back at you. 

“Okay.” 

***

“Calliope, what do you think of this shirt?” you ask your sister, holding up a very pretty eyelet lace blue sleeveless shirt. She turns her long black hair gliding over her shoulder.

“It’s very.... blue,” she says hesitantly. 

“You don’t like it,” you mutter matter-of-factly. 

“I just don’t see why you’re trying so hard to impress a human.” your face burns. 

“I-... he’s not...that’s not...” you huff. “Whatever.” You put the shirt back on the rack a little harder than is necessary. 

“You don’t even like blue anyway.” She reminded you. 

“It’s growing on me.” You muttered, picturing James’ eyes. 

“What about this red one? Red looks lovely with your skin color this time,” she says, holding it up against you. 

“I’ll try it on.” you sigh, taking it and hooking it over your fingers. She browses through some more racks, her beautiful face cycling through mild disinterest to disdain. She always prefers high designer fashion, always aiming for the favored who embody that lifestyle. That’s fine to you, it leaves the talent that usually goes unnoticed for you. And to you, that’s infinitely more special. 

You pick up a pair of form-fitting jeans that fit your new figure perfectly. Due to James’ physical preference, you had a few more curves in all the right places, and a whole new coloring to work with. Suddenly, Calliope turns towards you, her stunning face suspicious. 

“Why _are_ you so intent on impressing a human?” she asks, stalking back towards you. You almost recoil, but that shows weakness. 

“I just have to gain his trust.” you lie, schooling your features into cool indifference. Her chocolate brown eyes narrow. 

“Because you know our laws. We aren’t like the other Olympians, Y/N. Zeus can fall in lust with whomever he wants, we cannot.” she says quietly, her warning bordering on dangerous. 

“Of course, I’m not falling for him. I’m not an idiot, Callie. He’s just traumatized. You know those types always take longer.” you say with a wave of your hand, but you can feel the lie settling in your stomach. “He’s only human, after all.” you snort disdainfully and brush past her. Your heart is pounding in your chest. Your sister, unfortunately, has a point. Somewhere in between having dinner and talking with him every night, you had forgotten the point of why you were in his life. 

“If he’s only human, why won’t you say his name?” she asks, circling around a rack of clothes and cutting you off. 

“Does his name matter? He’s just one more of the _chaménos_ after every war. There have been millions throughout the eons, you never cared about any of their names. Why start now? Isn’t that beneath you?” you taunt, moving to admire a pair of earrings. 

“One of the lost...” her eyes turn moody and you know she’s thinking of a handsome man from long ago. She savored the bittersweet memory for a brief minute before her eyes clear. “All I’m saying, Y/N, is just make sure you know where to draw the line,” she tells you. 

“Understood. Now can we finish shopping?” you sigh. She watches you for a minute longer before nodding. 

“Fine.” you grab the blue shirt and go to check out while she heads off to look at more clothes. 

This is exactly why you don’t visit with your sisters anymore. They either don’t care about your personal life or they think theirs is so much better. 

“We should do lunch next week,” Calliope says as you both exited the store. 

“Sure. Just let me know when,” you reply half-heartedly. She hugs you and turns, leaving you to head home. You pause outside an art supply store, tempted to go in and get a gift for James. But there’s still the issue of his arm not being delicate enough. You blow out a sigh, opting for a case of his favorite beer instead, your mind turning in circles, working out a problem that should be easy to solve. 

**Bucky**

“Tony, what’s the word?” Bucky asks as he pushes open the door to the lab. Tony freezes mid-sentence to his lab partner and bio-chemist, Bruce. 

“Hey, Barnes.” he greets and Bucky hesitates. He can feel the tension in the room and he feels like he’s interrupting a conversation about him. 

“Any updates for my arm?” Buck pushes further into the room, determined to ignore the tension. He needs to find a solution quickly so he doesn’t hurt Y/N any further than the bruised ribs.

“Uh, I was just talking to Banner about that.” Tony gestures to his lab partner. “We have another idea we’d like to try soon,” he says, but it sounds to Bucky like he’s trying to avoid the topic altogether. 

“Just Banner? Is there anyone else that maybe has a specialty in this that you could consult with?” Bucky asks, trying extra hard not to lose his cool. He doesn’t want another meeting with Director Fury about his anger management. 

“Oh, I’m _sorry_ , you want a specialist on Cold War Russian technology adapted to current advancements? What was I thinking? I’m a dummy, I should have thought of that before.” Tony replies sarcastically. Bucky’s fists clench, his metal arm whirring as the gears inside flex and rev. 

_Keep it cool, Buck. Don’t lose it._

“I can’t imagine why that didn’t occur to me before,” Tony repeats with a glance at Bruce. Bruce, however, looks like he’s trying to disappear. A muscle twitches in Bucky’s jaw as he clenches his teeth together. 

“Probably because you’re an idiot.” Bucky snarls, unable to hold it back any longer. “Although, I should have been clearer. What I meant to ask was ‘is there anyone smarter than you and therefore better equipped to deal with something like this?’ Because it’s clearly out of your league.” he snaps before turning around and heading for the door. 

“Hey, Manchurian Candidate, you have to chill. Science takes time. You can’t rush perfection. Look what you get.” Tony chuckled, gesturing to Bucky’s arm. His metal fist clenched, although whether to punch Tony or an effort to keep from striking him, James isn’t sure. But he doesn’t appreciate the pop culture reference at his expense. 

“Just find a way to fix it.” he snarls and shoves the glass door open hard, barely registering the pop it made, sprouting a hairline fracture. 

“Barnes!” a deep voice snaps from the end of the hallway. Bucky sighs almost silently and turns. 

“Yes, sir?” He replies. 

“My office. Now.”

Great.

***

Your nerves are stretched to the point of fraying as you walk up the stairs to James’ apartment. Your anxiety makes no sense to you, you’re a goddess, thousands of years old. He’s just a regular mortal passing through your life. You find the right door, a big heavy metal door with rivets, and raise your hand tentatively. Voices from inside catch your attention and you pause, your curiosity getting the better of you. 

“You can’t just show up like this, Natasha.” James’ voice comes from inside, incredibly muffled, but your hearing is excellent. 

“I just wanted to check on you, Bucky. Make sure you haven’t done anything stupid.” A feminine voice comes next.

Who the hell is Bucky?

There’s a brief pause before James speaks again.

“Whatever I do, it’s not your problem anymore.”

“I still care,” she said quietly. 

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it.” You’re torn between knocking and finding out who this girl is, and not wanting James to think you’re eavesdropping. 

“Look, Buck, I thought it would be better to tell you now, at home before you find out through work. Fury has hired me to curate the exhibit in the SHIELD museum. I didn’t want you to show up to work and have a heart attack, so I’m telling you now.” she says, not delicately. 

Silence. 

“So, now you know. Mission accomplished. I’ll try to stay out of your way at SHIELD.” she tells him. 

You raise your hand to knock, sensing a natural break in the conversation. Your fist is almost to the cold metal when it’s yanked open, startling you. “Oh.” you gasp, taking an automatic step back. 

The woman in front of you is gorgeous, with short, phoenix red curls, bright blue eyes, and the fullest set of lips you’ve ever seen. She’s petite, about your height with a fair complexion. 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” she says, giving you a once-over look before glancing back at James. “See you around, Bucky,” she tells him, stepping out of the apartment. You take a cautious step inside to see James standing stock still facing his very open kitchen. 

You’re unsure what to say, you don’t want to startle him, but he doesn’t look like he’s going to move any time soon. 

“Is this a bad time?” you ask softly. He visibly flinches before turning to you. 

“As long as you don’t mind some not very good company right now, no.” he counters, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Good thing I brought alcohol.” you smile at him as you hold up the beer. 

“You’re a goddess.” he proclaims, moving towards you and taking the case. You flex your fingers subtly where the cardboard has cut into your flesh. You smirk to yourself, pulling off your shoes. 

_If you only knew,_ you think to yourself sarcastically. 

“I wasn’t sure if you would want me to stay.” you start, questions already burning in your throat. He closes the fridge and turns to look at you. 

“How much did you hear?” he asks. 

You shrug, slipping your coat off your shoulders. 

“Who’s Natasha?” you ask. He gestures for you to sit on the couch. It’s a comfortable thing, not overly stuffed, but not rock hard. 

“My ex-fiancée.” he finally answers after a minute. “She’s back.”


End file.
